


Yesterday is History, Tomorrow is You

by livin_in_my_head_2



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Peter, Hurt Peter Parker, M/M, Medical Torture, Past Torture, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Torture, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livin_in_my_head_2/pseuds/livin_in_my_head_2
Summary: When Peter Parker got cancer at the age of sixteen, he never imagined he'd be able to beat it. That is, until he undergoes an experimental treatment at the hands of a less-than-professional organization. There, he meets Wade Wilson, a teenager who is also suffering from cancer, and the two of them have an instant connection in the face of the daily terror they experience. Two years later, Peter is trying to pick up the pieces of his life when Wade waltzes back into it, desperate to make amends and find closure. But Peter isn't so sure - will accepting Wade back into his life mean he has to face his trauma, the events he has tried so hard to forget?//As of right now, this is a WIP, so idk how mature it's going to get. I slapped on that mature rating just to be safe :)
Relationships: Peter B. Parker/Wade Wilson, Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. wade returns

It was a brisk fall day in New York City. Couples strolled down the street, arms linked, cozy in sweaters and scarves. Rejuvenated parents pushed strollers filled with young children swaddled in blankets. And Peter Parker was enjoying none of it.

He was sure he had spent at least eight hours at his barista job but whenever he checked the clock - which was about every five seconds - he was served a brutal reminder that he was, in fact, only an hour and a half into his six-hour shift. It wasn’t that he hated his job at the small Starbucks down the street from his apartment. He just…really, really,  _ really _ disliked it.

But what else was a young adult between high school and college going to do? Peter knew he would be able to get enough scholarships after this gap year to help with most of his tuition, but he flat-out refused to let Aunt May pay a penny for his education. He was determined to save up the money to pay the rest of it. After all, the woman had raised him from young childhood into young adulthood. Her wallet deserved a break.

The bell connected to the door jingled merrily, signaling the entrance of yet another customer. Peter stifled a sigh and continued taking the order of the middle-aged woman in front of him. He could worry about whoever entered once they got to the front of the ever-growing line.

_ Damn you, pumpkin spice season _ .

Peter rushed through about six more orders, moving as fast as he could. Even though he hated - no, no,  _ strongly disliked _ \- this job, he wanted to do the best he could at it. He couldn’t risk getting fired.

He returned to the cash register after correcting a particularly finicky order. “Can I help you?” he asked, readying the machine to take the next order.

“Yeah, could I get a cake pop?”

Peter’s fingers froze on the buttons of the register. He felt his heart thud to his feet as the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze until it fell on the face of the person in front of him. The person who had entered the store all those orders ago.

“Wade,” he breathed.

The man in front of him smiled a little ruefully, not looking at all surprised. Peter suddenly felt a little self-conscious, realizing that he must have seen him running around like a chicken with its head caught off. That embarrassment was quickly overridden by about ten thousand other emotions, though.

He hadn’t expected to see Wade ever again. After that night…after their escape…Peter couldn’t get a deep breath. He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing right in front of him.

“When does your shift end?” Wade asked, voice low. “Figured we could grab some coffee. We should talk.” A small, infuriating smile crossed his lips.

Anger quickly rose to the forefront of all those other emotions. “You can’t just whirl in here after abandoning me for  _ two years _ and expect me to join you for a cup of coffee!”

Wade winced. “‘Abandoning you’ is strong. I just…”

Peter crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, waiting.

Wade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. I abandoned you. But can we please talk? I have a lot I need to tell you?”

Peter wanted to say no. He wanted to go back to making cappuccinos and serving lemon squares and forgetting Wade had ever strolled into this godforsaken Starbucks without a care in the world.

But the opportunity for that was long gone.

“I still have five hours,” he said through gritted teeth.

Wade’s lips curved into a frown. “Damn. Well, here.” He tugged a crumpled receipt out of his pocket. “Do you have a pen?”

Peter practically threw a pen at him. Wade caught it and scribbled an address on the back of the receipt.

“This is my hotel. I’m in room 304. Please stop by.”

Peter tucked the receipt into his back pocket, using the last of his self-control to force out a terse, “Do you still want that cake pop?”

Wade’s frown transformed back into a grin. “Yes, please.”

It was all Peter could do to keep from smashing the glass of the display case - but he somehow managed to keep his cool and fetch the cake pop. 

“Thanks so much,” Wade said as Peter thrust the crinkly brown bag at him. “Looks delicious. Come see me after you get off your shift. Please.”

And then he paid and was gone, just like that. Like he had never really been there. Maybe Peter would have been able to convince himself that that was the case, that it was all some terrible PTSD hallucination, if it wasn’t for the wrinkled receipt still in his back pocket. Oh, and the stares from other customers. He tended to forget that Wade’s scars weren’t really an everyday sight.

“Is everything all right?” Peter’s coworker murmured as she passed him.

“Fine,” he replied tightly. He appreciated the concern, but he wasn’t really close with anyone here. Even if he was, explaining anything about Wade Wilson would have been a herculean feat. Whoever he told would probably just go running, or maybe call the cops. Hell, Peter had considered calling the cops now and again. But it had all been too much. Having post-traumatic stress disorder was enough to deal with on top of a legal case he was sure to lose. After all, the organization that had broken him, Wade, and so many others was too elusive, too powerful, to ever be punished. The best he could do was try to pick up the fractured pieces of his life, keep his sights set on the future. On college. On an uncomplicated life as a normal citizen.

_ There’s nothing normal about you _ , a dark voice in the back of Peter’s head reminded him. He sighed, grabbing the edge of the counter and focusing all his energy on being polite to the next customer.

Because deep down, he knew that voice was right. Peter Parker might have seemed like your average broke NYC kid, even with the dead parents and the aunt-slash-foster mom situation - but in all honesty, he wasn’t just some mild-mannered Starbucks barista.

He was so much more. And god, he wished that wasn’t true.


	2. ~cancer

_ New York, 2017 _

Peter couldn’t remember ever being a starry-eyed kid who believed himself to be untouchable. He knew it was a common idea that adults had about young people - that children thought they were invincible, that they’d do all sorts of stupid stuff because they didn’t really believe in death. Peter had never been like that. He knew more than most adults about how the world worked. About how quickly everything could be stolen from you.

Even with this in mind, he still couldn’t quite believe the words that had just come out of his doctor’s mouth.

Aunt May let out a choking gasp beside him, reaching out with slender fingers to grasp at Peter’s arm. Usually, such a forward, public display of her affection would have embarrassed him - he was a sixteen year old, after all. But right now, he didn’t have the strength to even properly register the gesture.

All he could do was try desperately to process the doctor’s words.

His little speech, full of apologies and condolences, had boiled down to one key point, one singular word that promised to ruin both Peter and his aunt:  _ cancer _ .

Peter’s brain snapped into focus. It was as if just thinking the word was enough to understand and accept the fate that was rapidly approaching. He was a lost cause - he wasn’t an expert on bone cancer, not by any means, but he knew enough to know his chances were slim, especially given Aunt May’s meager salary. If she could barely afford his school supplies, how could she afford medical bills and, inevitably, the costs of his funeral?

He would have to start exploring alternatives. A GoFundMe, maybe, for some of the hospital bills. People lapped up this sort of tragic shit. He could call the doctor privately so his aunt couldn’t hear, ask him to tell him what his chances truly were. Then and there, sitting in a plush seat across from a stony-faced doctor and next to his heartbroken aunt, Peter promised himself that if his chances were under thirty percent, he would refuse treatment. That would help with some of the costs, at least - because he knew May would fight him, initially.

Then it was just the matter of the funeral costs. He had heard of a new way of burying people, putting them straight into the earth without a coffin - they were supposed to be cheaper and better for the environment. A win-win. Although he’d like a gravestone next to his parents’, and those could get expensive…

“Peter,” broke through the frantic fog of his thoughts. He raised his head to meet the doctor’s worried gaze. Glancing to his right, he saw Aunt May watching him with wide eyes set in a pale face. She reached out a hand and swiped at his cheeks. Peter realized, dimly, that he was crying.

He only had eyes for Aunt May at that moment. For the serious expression embedded in her facial features. For the love in her dark brown eyes.

“We’re going to fight this,” she told him sternly, like she was giving him a talking-to for not cleaning his room. It felt like she had read his thoughts about refusing treatment. “We are going to  _ fight this _ .”

_ With what money? _ Peter wanted to ask. But he couldn’t do that to her, not right now. Not with the pieces of their fragile life crumbling around them.

All he could do was nod.

*

Peter didn’t get a decent night’s sleep for weeks after that appointment. As he saw it, there was no point in wasting time on good sleep when he was practically a lost cause anyway.

So instead he spent his time Googling cancer treatments, both legit and complete scams. His computer files became filled with spreadsheets of financial reports. He explored alternatives to the way he and Aunt May were currently living so they could save some money.

Everything led to a dead end. Nothing held a solution that would work for his makeshift little family.

So when a solution literally ran into him, Peter couldn’t quite believe it at first.

This solution came in the form of a tall, well-dressed man. Peter had been walking to the corner store for some more milk when his shoulder bumped the man’s. Weak as he was, he stumbled, but managed not to fall. The man caught his elbow, helping to steady him.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The man offered him a gentle grin. The crow’s feet around his eyes crinkled.

Peter smiled back instinctively. “That’s fine.”

The man took a closer look at him. Peter could only imagine what he looked like through the man’s eyes: a lanky, pale teenager with shadows staining the skin under his eyes, dressed in clothes he hadn’t changed for days.

“Are you okay, son?”

Peter struggled with a response before replying simply with, “No.”

The man studied him a moment longer. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Peter did want to talk about it. He really did. But he was an NYC kid. He hadn’t been raised on these streets without learning a thing or two about stranger danger.

His smile turned tight. “Thanks, but I’ve really gotta finish my errands.”

The man nodded slowly, still examining Peter. “That’s fine. I understand. You’re sick, though.”

His bluntness took Peter aback. Strangers usually weren’t so forward - if they spoke to him at all. But here this man was, calling out what was obviously wrong with Peter, the issue that his own aunt had been tiptoeing around for days.

“Um, yeah.”

“Is it terminal?”

_ I guess we’re talking about it _ . “Very.”

The man dug into his pocket. Peter thought for a wild moment that he was going to pull out change or something, some money for the poor dying kid. He seemed like the type to throw money at a problem until it went away, judging by his suit. But instead, his hand emerged gripping a business card, all black except for a number etched in silver lettering on one side.

“It’s an incredible coincidence that I would run into you. I work for an organization that explores experimental medicine. Our treatments are in the final stage of production and need…well, human subjects, for lack of a better term.” The man chuckled. “I know it seems strange, but if you run out of options…” He handed the card to Peter, who slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Thanks.” Now he was sure this man was some sort of con artist. He surreptitiously ran his hands over his coat to make sure nothing had been stolen. Everything seemed like it was in place but he would have to check when he got inside the store.

The man touched a finger to his hairline as if he was tipping an imaginary hat, and then kept scrolling down the sidewalk like nothing had happened.

For years later, Peter’s mind would return to the interaction. He would wonder, lying awake at night, if it was truly a coincidence that the man had run into him that day, or if they had been watching him all along.

*

Peter called the number because - of course he did. Because otherwise he would never have met Wade, he would never have been startled by him striding into that Starbucks.

He called the number when he was out of options, which was approximately right when he got home and saw that May was gone. He called the number and signed up for the program, packed a bag and held May as she sobbed.

The treatment center had government funding, according to their website, according to the legally binding contracts they sent them. There was no reason not to trust them.

Looking back, Peter could see a million red flags. On the surface, he told himself that back then, he had been a dumb kid, hurt and desperate. Deep down, he knew the truth. That he saw those red flags the minute that man was so forward about his illness on a nondescript New York street. That he saw them, and went anyway, because he never wanted to see Aunt May cry again.

The treatment center wasn’t safe. Obviously. Nothing about it was what they claimed. They took Peter and broke him down to his basic parts, built him back up again with pieces that didn’t fit quite right. He was a prisoner of war, a boy forced into combat against his will, against his best interests. And the fight? It was all fought for power, for money.

They wanted to see what happened when you pushed a person to their limits. When you tortured them past the point of no return. When you gave them fancy new serums that were nowhere near being approved for human testing.

The answer to their questions was a difficult one, one that Peter still couldn’t totally answer. It seemed like he found out something new about himself every single day after he escaped that treatment center. He could walk on walls and didn’t have to wear glasses and could sense when someone’s intentions were less than pure.

None of that mattered, though. Not after Wade torched the center to the ground, killing everyone but them.

He had to. That’s what he told Peter as he grabbed his hand, rushed him outside. And that’s what Peter told himself, over and over, for the years after their escape.

But Peter worried that he knew the truth, too. That Wade didn’t have to kill everyone. That if he and Peter hadn’t been finding physical comfort in each other while they were locked in there, he would have left Peter to burn, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I got bored and edited this the same night that I uploaded the story...I'm on a roll lmao.
> 
> would y'all prefer a slow burn for this story or something a little faster paced? it still wouldn't be a super long story if it was a slow burn but it would be a little longer, at the risk of getting a little monotonous. it's up to you guys!!


	3. wade's hotel room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate having unfinished works on here so I'm going to make this one a shorter one. If anyone's ever interested, I have an idea of how I could turn it into a longer fic, but I don't really have interest in doing so right now. This is longer than my usual fics but pretty short in the world of fanfiction :)

_ I don’t have to go _ , Peter told himself for the last few hours of his work day.

_ I don’t have to go _ , he thought fiercely as he helped his coworker clean up.

_ I don’t have to go _ , he mentally argued as he smoothed out the wrinkled receipt on his pant leg.

_ I don’t have to go _ , he muttered under his breath as he got in a taxi and read the driver the address.

_ I’m so totally going _ , he finally admitted as he entered the hotel and strode to the elevators.

“I’m just going to talk,” he murmured as he stepped out onto the third floor.

Yes. That was all. He just needed to talk to Wade, get some closure. It would be good for him. Mentally. That was the only reason he was going.

Taking a deep breath and mustering his courage, Peter raised his fist and knocked smartly on the door of room 304.

It opened almost immediately. He was greeted by Wade’s face, lit with a happiness that made Peter instinctively smile, too.

“You came!”

“I did,” Peter replied weakly, stepping into the room as Wade moved aside to admit him.

"Do you want something to drink?" Wade passed Peter and then paused in the narrow hallway leading to the wider bedroom. "Actually, I just have a few bottles of water. But you're welcome to one if you want it."

"I'm okay," Peter answered faintly. "But thank you." This whole interaction felt surreal, the niceties overshadowed by their shared history. Peter couldn't look at Wade without remembering…remembering…

He sucked in a deep breath and ran a hand over his forehead. "Actually, I'll take one of those bottles."

Wade crossed the room to a half-unpacked suitcase. He bent over to retrieve a water bottle as Peter walked slowly into the bedroom.

He barely turned in time to catch the water bottle that Wade lobbed at him. He swiftly unscrewed the cap and took a deep drink.

"Why did you want to talk to me?" Peter asked as he rescrewed the cap of the bottle. "Really."

" Is it so unbelievable that I would want to get caught up?"

The anger that had been slowly simmering in Peter ever since this afternoon finally exploded. He slammed the water bottle down on the dresser, hard enough to make the plastic crackle.

"Catch up on what, Wade? The psych wards I've been in? The therapists I've had? The meds I'm on? The days that I sobbed myself to sleep because I couldn't stop thinking about that awful place? Because I couldn't stop thinking about  _ you? _ "

Wade's face drains of color. "Peter…"

"I needed you, Wade. You weren't just some way to distract me while they tortured us. I needed you during all that, yes, but I needed you afterwards, too. And you weren't there. You fucked off to who-the-hell-knows and left me behind. And then, two years later, you stroll into my Starbucks and decide you want to be buds again?"

"Please let me explain," Wade managed. "Just…please. God knows I don't deserve it but please let me try to explain."

Peter stays silent, more out of curiosity than anything else. He wants - no, he  _ needs  _ to hear how the hell Wade plans on justifying his abandonment.

"After we escaped…I was heartbroken. I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't know how to handle everything that had happened. I mean, I'd been abused before, but not…not like that. I didn't know how to handle it. I didn't have anyone to go home to. You had your aunt and I didn't have anyone."

“You had me,” Peter choked out through fast-forming tears. He swiped desperately at his eyes, determined not to cry in front of Wade. Not again.

“Not once we got out. Not like I had you when we were in there. You had your aunt and your friends and this bright future…I had nothing, Peter. Nothing. I know that doesn’t justify leaving, but I hope it at least explains it. I didn’t feel like I measured up to anything in your new life. I didn’t feel like I could ever fit in. Plus, I thought it would be better for you if I left. I’m really, truly sorry if it wasn’t. But come on, think about it. How would you have gotten better if you had this constant reminder of trauma in your life?”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “I  _ needed  _ your constant reminder, Wade. You were one of the only other people on the face of the earth that I could actually talk to. I had to come up with this whole fancy backstory about hospital malpractice just to be able to talk about my emotions in the ward and in therapy. I couldn’t exactly tell them the truth, could I? There were days when I thought I was going insane, where I thought I had made the whole thing up. Because you weren’t there to convince me it had happened.”

Wade was the one who now looked close to tears. “Is it even near enough that I realized I was wrong?” he whispered. “That I came back?”

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head. “I can’t answer that right now.”

“That’s okay. I understand.” Wade looked at him with that stupid puppy dog expression that Peter had missed, had dreamed about, for so long. He looked genuinely heartbroken. And Peter knew that Wade was a shit liar. Everything he had said was true. Sure, he had left Peter, but he had done it with good intentions, at least.

_ But he had still left him _ .

“I - fuck. I need some air.” He didn’t know why he had thought this was a good idea. Why he had thought any of this was a good idea. He turned to leave the hotel room.

“Wait.” The desperation in Wade’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Please. Stay.”

“And do what, Wade?” Peter turned around, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “Fuck you? The only thing I want to do right now is punch you in your goddamn face.”

Wade shoved his hands into his back pockets, eyebrows raised. “So do it,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Hit me.” His lips twisted. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing someone’s ever done to me.”

Peter hit the floor hard almost before he realized he was sitting. He buried his face in his hands, Wade’s words dredging up whole slews of memories he had been forgetting.

Wade sat down beside him and held him close as he sobbed.


	4. ~meeting wade + wade's powers

_ The Laboratory, 2017 _

The first time they gave him an injection, Peter was sure it was a joke.

He hadn’t met Wade then, had no way of knowing the tortuous future that lay in store for him. No, he still thought these people were out to help him.

Then they strapped him to a table and pushed brightly colored fluid into his veins.

It hurt. Worse than anything Peter had ever felt before. He screamed until he didn’t have a voice anymore, until the sound was reduced to the hiss of air leaving his ragged throat. He screamed until someone shoved a dirty rag in his mouth and duct taped it in place to shut him up.

The man who had initially approached him came to visit him then. He looked down on Peter, whose eyes were red with sobbing and whose face was covered in tear tracks and snot, and he laughed. He chuckled like the situation was casually humorous,  _ just another day at the office _ .

Peter had passed out shortly after that. He stayed in a state of half consciousness for some unknown amount of time, floating between his nightmares and the hellish reality he occupied.

He wished he could die right then and there. That the cancer would rise up and claim him.

*

The first time Peter met Wade, he fell in love.

Not in some romantic,  _ he’s-the-one _ sort of way. No. That was all bullshit. But when Peter first met Wade, he was being wheeled in beside him, strapped down to a cart of his own. And he was  _ smiling _ .

“What’s up next, doc?” he was asking the man who pushed his trolley.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve done that yet.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” The man stared down at Wade with contempt before leaving the room.

The rag was still duct taped into Peter’s mouth. His tears had dried on his cheeks. All he could do was turn his head to stare at Wade, who looked just as shitty as Peter. Cuts and bruises marred every visible surface of his skin and one of his eyes was so swollen that he couldn’t open it. But he still managed a smile in Peter’s direction.

“Hey, cutie. You’re new.”

And Peter was lost.

*

Overcrowding had pushed Wade into Peter’s room, if the small slab of concrete surrounded by four threadbare curtains could be called a room. Wade told him all about how more and more people were signing up for this experimental program. How nobody had ever survived it.

“They want to turn normal people into mutants,” Wade explained as waves of homesickness hit Peter, so intense that he could barely breathe. “That’s what they’re trying to do. Get our mutant gene, if we have one, to react to their treatments.”

“I’m not a mutant,” Peter muttered, staring resolutely at the ceiling.

“I’d rather be a mutant than a cancer patient,” Wade fired back.

Peter just turned his head and tried to stop shivering. They had put him in a body-sized cooler filled with ice for so long that he had almost lost his fingers and toes. The chill still hadn’t left his body.

“How long have you been here, Wade?”

“Lemme just check my calendar real quick. Want me to pull out my planner? You’ll never guess where I’ve stashed it.”

“I’m being serious, Wade.”

Wade fell silent for a moment before replying softly. “A month. A little more.”

Peter had been here for under a week. Thinking about one more day here made him physically ill.

_ At least they took the damn rag out of my mouth _ .

He closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, and let Wade’s ramblings lull him to sleep.

*

Wade’s powers manifested before Peter’s. He disappeared for a weekend and came back quiet and drawn. Peter didn’t even want to think about what they had done to Wade to get him to shut up.

He could see by the scars mottling every inch of his skin that it had been hellish, worse than anything he had experienced thus far.

And he knew something similar was in his future.

Some of his powers were already pushing at his consciousness. He got a tugging in the pit of his stomach right before the doctors showed up, for example. A warning of sorts.

But nothing like Wade’s.

“Turns out I am a mutant,” Wade muttered late that night. “Yay.”

Peter couldn’t respond. He was too busy trying to muffle his sobs. He failed, though, and a whimper slipped from his throat, pathetically hanging in the damp air that constantly reeked of sweat and fear.

“Hey, hey, Petey. What’s going on over there?”

“They’re going to kill us,” Peter gasped out, each word interrupted by a hiccuping sob that seemed to rack his whole body.

Silence fell except for the distant weeps and screams of other patients. Then Peter heard a wet, crunching  _ pop _ from Wade’s bed.

“Aw,  _ shit _ .”

“Wade?”

“Shit fuck shit.”

“Are you okay?”

He heard Wade moving through the darkness -  _ moving _ . Which meant he was free from his bed. “Are you out?” Peter demanded.

“Yes, my darling Petey-poo. Had to dislocate my own goddamn shoulder and it hurts like a mother, but I’m a free man.”

“You  _ dislocated your own shoulder? _ ” Peter wildly searched his memory for anything that could help Wade, any first aid knowledge that he could use to pop Wade’s joint back into place. Maybe he could just push at it until something gave. No, that didn’t seem smart -

“It’ll heal,” Wade said dismissively.

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me earlier, didn’t you? I’m a mutant. Ah, there we go. Allll better.”

“You - you just healed? Just like that?”

“Yup. It’s like it never even happened.” Peter felt Wade jostling with his own restrains and a rare bloom of hope blossomed in his stomach. Was this the night he would finally escape this hellhole?

Wade finally managed to undo the straps. Peter tried to rise and fell to his knees. He was so weak - half starved, dehydrated, beaten within an inch of his life. He quickly realized, groaning on the floor, that there was no way he would be getting out of here. Not unless Wade carried him. Which was a viable possibility but not one that seemed realistic. They didn’t know where the exits were or what sort of resistance would meet them.

“This will come in handy,” Wade muttered. Peter’s eyes had adjusted slightly to the dark and he could just make out Wade’s shadow, flexing and turning his upper arm, which must have been where his joint dislocated to free him from his restraints. Then his arms slid under Peter’s and he was being hefted not-so-gracefully back onto the cot. “There we are.”

Wade sat down next to him and rolled him gently onto his side. “Um, Wade,” Peter ventured uncertainly. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m sick and tired of hearing you cry yourself to sleep every night,” Wade replied lightly, but his words carried weight. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but - ” He slid in behind Peter, tugging the blanket over both of them. His body was flush against Peter’s, one arm thrown over his chest, legs intertwined. It all happened so quickly that Peter just froze, hardly believing what was happening. His heart started beating faster.

“Is this okay?” Wade asked tentatively.

“Yes,” Peter managed, barely able to keep his voice from cracking. In reality, it was more than okay. Wade was warm against his back, soothing to his aching muscles and the bruises peppering his skin. Just having him there, feeling his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his lungs, reminded Peter that whatever this place threw at him, he wasn’t alone.

“This is okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> CONSTANT NOTES:
> 
> howdy y'all. I don't have an updating schedule but I do have a lot of schoolwork to procrastinate on. see y'all soon (fingers crossed).
> 
> (also, I'm getting major 2018 me vibes from this multi-chapter fic...)


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